Welcome Home! My Mini AutoBiography
by The Righterzpen
Summary: Well, this started as a forum post; than I thought - maybe it would be of encouragement to a wider audiance? So here it is. How the God of Grace worked a miracle in the life of one tragically lost soul!
1. Chapter 1

Well, here it is. My personal journey. The good the bad and the ugly.

_**Fair Warning Here**_: This isn't an easy read. I've endured some horrendous things. People may look at this and go - Geez how could she write this? That's horrible: the things she says about her parents and family and all. I'm sure some people will even doubt if this is true. Now all of what I write concerning my own experiences is true. Of what people have said of their knowledge of my mother, brother or other family members, I can't totally verify; but I believe what my dad and my sister have said to me.

Also:

I'm 41 years old and I'm writing this from the vantage point of some nearly 30 years of recovery. I'd first entered counseling when I was in the seventh grade. My health teacher brought me down to a counselor one day after class, when we'd watched a movie on alcoholism and I was sitting in the back of the room crying after everyone else had gone to lunch. That was the fist step in my journey to stay alive. That odyssey has had a lot of ups and downs and has taken me to some very dark places. This piece is written in somewhat abbreviated "highlighted" form of major life events in my spiritual journey. God has been very good to me through this all. My goal in writing this is that you see His grace in this story!

If God uses this to bring someone else to faith - I'll tell it; regardless of what might be "embarrassing" to me.

Not sure I need to make a disclaimer here but - I don't own me! Any thing good you take out of this is the work of God.

"Reviews" of my life are welcome - but I promise I won't die if you dislike me!

Seriously though, let me know what God does with this for you.

I like to see grace at work in other people too!

* * *

_**Demons in the Nursery:** _

I grew up with an alcoholic mother. (She's deceased now.) One who had an incestuous relationship with her own brother that started when she was a kid and went on well into her adult life. For what ever perverse sin in her own life - she seemed to be fine with it. She went on to molest her own son. She was going to "make him a man", or so as she'd allegedly told my dad. (I'll explain my dad in a minute.)

My brother of course, turned around and molested his three sisters. I was the youngest in the family and at ten years old; my brother tried to rape me. He stopped when I told him I was going to bite his... reproductive organs - if he didn't leave me alone. He went on to other "participants" - those of both willing and not; (one of which my sister suspects was the family dog). My sexual abuse started with my brother's voyeurism when I was four years old. I recall witnessing a portion of one of my mother's escapades with her own brother when I was about that age; but I recall no other incidents following the one when I was ten. My sister has told me though that she remembers me screaming when I was about 16 because my brother was trying to crawl into bed with me. He'd told her, myself (and I suspect dad) that he'd been "sleep walking". My sister recollected how old we were based on her memory of my brother tripping over the compressor for her airbrush on the way out of our room. My mother had purchased the airbrush for my sister as part of the supplies for her college courses. My sister was going to art school at the time. I was about 16, which would have made her about 18 and my brother around 22 years old. My sister told me about this incident just recently. Personally, I hadn't remembered it until she said something and even than the only memory I have is the vague recollection of my brother tripping over the air compressor. Other than that, I don't recall this incident; but knowing what I know of PTSD and recollection of trauma - my lack of memory doesn't surprise me.

My dad knew about my mother's incestuous relationship and these early incidents with my brother. According to a friend of his, he'd said that he walked in on my mother performing oral sex on my brother when he was about eight years old. The kid was making noise and dad thought he was sick, so he went upstairs to check on the kid. When dad had opened the door to his own bedroom and discovered what was going on; this is when mom had allegedly told dad that "someone had to make him a man". This came out recently too - from this friend of my dads. She relayed this to my sister and myself after we were discussing our own abuse following my recent knee surgery. We guess mom was somehow seemingly trying to indicate to dad that he was "inadequate" to teach my brother how to "be a man".

Yeah, mom was pretty twisted. More on that later though. (Of stuff I started to remember after dad died.)

My dad had told me about what he'd witnessed with my mother and her own brother in the years just before he died. Dad had made some feeble attempts to intervene in all this perversion; but in the era that I grew up - (1970's) he was afraid of not being believed and losing his daughters. And yeah, I can see now where dad was coming from. The stuff that was going on was pretty outrageous. There are times I look back at this and go - woah! Was this real, or were we living in the twilight zone? I know it happened though. The collective memories of all of us put together gives a greater perspective to my own memories. The picture makes more sense.

My mother had threatened that she'd tell the authorities that dad was the perpetrator and that he'd go to jail if he got anyone else involved. Dad's fear of not being believed effectively silenced him; but to his credit - he did stick around. Looking at it now in retrospect. I think from that point on, dad's only hope at saving his girls was that we'd be the ones to open our mouths to the authorities. To that end, I remember him showing us documentaries about child molesters and encouraging us to tell someone if these things ever happened to us.

Amidst all of this - my dad was a troubled soul. But for the grace of God though, he wasn't a pedophile. Dad never molested anyone.

With all this drinking and abuse, of course was a lot of neglect. I recall many days being hungry and cold. Dad worked trick work for the local utility and despite his odd schedule - always made sure we got one meal. (Dinner - even if he had to get out of bed and cook it himself.) When I got into school, dad also made sure we always had lunch money.

As for where dad ends up in eternity? I don't know. I pray he found his peace with God though!

* * *

_**My first 12 Steps to Spiritual Awakening:**_

Of course in all this mess, I grew up as an atheist and when I was 16 years old, I started attending Alanon meetings. These meetings were my first introduction to the concept of "a power greater than myself". It wasn't really that hard of a notion for me to accept, as it had been quite obvious from as far back as I could remember that there were "powers greater than me" and a lot of circumstances that I had no control over. In the beginning, I still didn't believe in a "Higher Power", but I kept going to the meetings because they gave me hope and a sense of peace in my chaotic world.

Than one day, I was walking home from school, looking at the flowers and the trees and Lake Ontario when suddenly it hit me - **_I didn't put this stuff here!_**

(Duh!)

Yes, of course I didn't make the flowers or the trees or the lake - but what a revelation that impressed upon me as to the reality of a Higher Power! This notion stuck in my head and as the weeks past, I found myself suddenly enthralled with Biology class! Wow, look at all the cool stuff in this world - all made by... a power greater than me!

Then on another day walking home from school. I realized something else. The sky was blue, the grass was green, the dirt was brown and the flowers were red! I'd never noticed it before, but suddenly my world had color. Things had color and they were... **_alive!_** The world around me was **_alive_** - and I being a creature of this Earth realized **_I was alive too_**. I wasn't sure exactly what that meant; but at that point I knew - I believed in God!

The other revelation that was coming to bear on me also at that time was love. Strangers, teachers, counselors, friends, Alanon members, the elderly lady that lived behind me, even our pet dog. They said hello to me, they talked to me, they fed me and befriended me. The world was not against me! Looking back at it now, I came to realize - they loved me. That was a good thing - I needed that!

My life was a mess and I knew it. I didn't have the strength, the knowledge, the courage or in some ways - even the desire to figure it out. I was so depressed and I knew if I was ever going to kick these demons out of my miserable existence - I needed help. This "Higher Power" I heard people talk about. The one that put broken lives back together and got drunks, who were just like my mother - sober. What ever it is that you are God - help me!

_**I came, I came to, I came to believe!**_

Then one day, one of my Alanon friends took me to a Billy Gram crusade. She wasn't a particularly religious person, but did believe in God. She had a lot of respect for Billy Gram and when she asked me if I wanted to go - I said - sure. Why not!

Well, I don't remember much of what 'ol Billy said, but I do remember one quadriplegic named Joni Erikson-Tada. She'd been paralyzed at 17 when she dove into a swimming pool and broke her neck. She'd been a wheelchair for something like 24 years at that point. She said Jesus got her through that - one day at a time. I thought to myself - wow. I don't really understand all this stuff they say about him being "the son of God" or whatever - but if he can help her get through 24 years in a wheelchair - maybe he can help me?

So I went down to the field and did the "accept Christ" thing.

That started my journey into Christianity.

* * *

_(I'll get back to the rest of the story later - maybe tonight. Right now I got to go feed my kid!)_


	2. Chapter 2

_(OK - Back!)_

* * *

_**Learning to Trust in You:**_

So here I was, really didn't know much about this guy named Jesus; other than he was a historical figure who started a religion. Next step I guess would be to go get myself a Bible? So that's what I did. I went and bought a Bible and started attending my local community church on a more regular basis.

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus - didn't know much about Jesus; but I had another problem in my mind to overcome. The guy thing! You see, in my world there were two kinds of guys: the ones that hurt you (like my brother) and the ones who were "weak" (like my dad). Was there a third? I wasn't really sure, but maybe I should keep an open mind about this?

So, along with my Bible reading - I borrowed a movie from a lady who worked with the youth group. The movie was "Jesus of Nazareth" and had been one of those "made for TV" miniseries type of things. Well, as I watched these actors on the screen; one scene caught my attention. "Jesus" had just healed a blind man and here come the raging Pharisees. They bellowed and waved their arms and made a lot of noise while the (having once been blind) - man backed up and "Jesus" stepped between him and them. Now, if anything like that happened in real life (which I suspect it did) the scene left quite an impression on me. Here's what it meant to be a man - you protect the weak!

So, having that rolling around in my head; (A year or so had passed since I'd first realized I didn't make the trees, the grass or Lake Ontario.) I'd gotten my driver's licence and was driving myself to meetings. My meetings had expanded to now include incest survivor meetings. I'd sit in these meetings and listen to people share. There were two types of women in these meetings; ones who had stable long term marriages and ones that didn't. As I sat and listened, I came to appreciate the ladies who had husbands who loved and supported them. Even though both parties struggled with the abuse these women had endured; the supportive husbands stuck by their wives with the encouragement that we're going to get through this. Even if you don't want to ... (well you know) right now - I love you and will do what ever I have to, in order for you to recover. Wow, I thought to myself. To have a guy you loved and trusted that much. What a great thing that would be! You see, up until that point - I'd never had a positive sexual experience. I was so confused, that I even wondered if I was gay?

So, I'd go away from the meetings and think to myself - hum; who do I trust that I'd even consider getting close to? Well, I couldn't come up with anyone; except I had come to the conclusion that I could trust Jesus. After all, he was helping me get through school, helped me get a job when I needed one, helped me get through these debilitating crying jags I was experiencing and gave me a place to go when my parents' house got too crazy and everything was falling apart. I went to live with my grandmother for about 6 months. Life with Grandma had it's ups and downs; but at least I no longer had to look at my brother! That was a big plus!

I started to wonder about this whole "reproduction" thing and the fact that maybe these ladies who were liking it... were right? After all, how many millennia had passed and this planet was full of animals and people that kept... multiplying! Hum? Maybe there's something too this? Then one night it happened; I went to sleep and had this really... strange dream with... guess who in it? Yeah, Jesus - imagine making that connection.

Well, when I woke up - I automatically felt dirty. I'd given Jesus some sort of disease. I'd given him my perversion. I got him dirty too. A couple of days passed and I sort of settled down and tried to think this through. Well, wait a minute - I did feel warm and happy and and... safe. Was that such a bad thing? No, I guess it wasn't. Maybe I'm not all gross and dead and disgusting? So with that thought stuck in my head - I decided - let me try something. Well, being absolutely too terrified of involving another person and really not wanting to make God unhappy with me over it - I decided to "go solo" with my "experiment". Well that wasn't so bad - except I soon discovered I couldn't control it. This "problem" of mine remained my own. I never dared involve someone else and it never left the space between my ears. I was so ashamed of myself and I didn't know what to do, so I did what I always did; I buried it and I suffered in silent shame for about the next 8 years.

* * *

_**War on Many Fronts:**_

Back in the outside world, I knew I couldn't live with Grandma forever - I had to do something? So I joined the Navy. I remember having trouble at the MEPS station because I had (I'll explain "had" a bit later) a congenital birth defect in one eye. I almost didn't get in and I remember telling God - well what am I going to do if I can't join? Finally, through the course of the day I came to the conclusion that - well God - if You don't want me in the Navy - than - don't let me in. Well, I got a billet in the Seabees as a Heavy Equipment Operator and later that day took my oath to protect America from all enemies both foreign and domestic "Oh help me God!"

So I joined the US Navy in January of 1990. I wasn't due to ship out for another six or eight months, so I did my best to prepare myself for life in the military. Little did I know what was coming.

My Aunt, Uncle, cousin and myself went to Europe that summer. My aunt and uncle had hosted a bunch of exchange students and since I had been friends with all of them; they invited me to go along on their trip to visit everyone. They had a girl from Poland, (first highschool exchange student from a communist block country) two students from Germany and my cousin had been an exchange student in France. It was a great trip and we spent a month driving around Europe.

A little problem arose for me though while we were in Poland.

Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait!

I remember watching the breaking news on CNN in Stafania's parent's dinning room. Their family had been staying in their living room while they let us sleep in their bedrooms. (All of the seperate rooms in their house had doors on them. Their house was beautiful, but it wasn't built like a typical American house.) I remember Stafania's mom coming out of their living room in somewhat of a panic. She told her husband and daughters what was going on and since none of us knew Polish - we didn't understand them. Stafania and her sister translated for us, while her dad went and got the TV. He brought it out into the dinning room and set it on the buffet. We spent the rest of the evening flipping channels between English CNN and the Polish news. I don't remember if we'd just gotten back from Auschwitz or we were going there the next day. All I remember thinking was - Oh Crap - I don't really want to go to war!

Well, the concentration camp and Kuwait haunted me the rest of the trip. Was that what I was about to see? How do you kill yourself with an M-16 if you're about to get captured? I don't really want the whole Iraqi army (or anyone else's army (including my own) for that matter) uh... doin me! Even thinking about it now, I still remember the intense fear. I still feel sick to my stomach and the Gulf War was almost what - 22 years ago now.

I cried off and on for the next several months. Boot camp and A school came and went before the war ended. I was next in line and I remember calling my parents from the base, the night I heard about the cease fire. I was never so relieved in my life. I managed to miss the active theater, but I wasn't exactly fortunate enough to miss the war. I got sent when it was over to clean up the mess.

I remember saying: "OK God, You got me this far. You got me this far. I'm OK right here and right now and nothings happened to me yet. Please keep me safe!" And for the most part I was safe. Periodic whispers of suicide bombers remained; but none of the bases I was ever on saw any serious breaches of security. What a mess though! Dead bodies, sick allied soldiers, Psycho Saudis - they'd take the Iraqi soldiers who'd surrendered and after they beat the shit out of them; they'd throw them in pits in the middle of the desert and leave them there to die. (Not every Saudi I've met is psycho though fortunately - I've met some that were really nice!), maimed and tortured Kuwaitis, bomb/brain fried and starving EPW's (enemy prisoner of war), gobs of Iraqi refugees, burned out equipment, oil residue everywhere and bugs like you would not believe. The only thing scarier than some of the bugs, were some of the people in my own unit. There were times I was glad there was an M-16 between me and some of my own guys. One guy "Cooper" - I really wish the Iraqis had shot him and put him out of his (and our) own misery. There are very few people I've ever encountered in life that I've taken a serious disliking too; but he was one sorry excuse for a human being.

So thus was Desert Storm. Even today, I try not to think to much about it - because it just makes me sick and than I want to cry.

Well, shortly after that, I ended up on the "left coast" and than the syndrome started to get me. My hair was falling out. I got a rash that covered half of my body. My hands wouldn't open at times. I'd get these headaches and wicked dizzy spells that sent me flying; just like someone had shoved me. I signed up to serve my country and after nearly three years; (almost to the day) of leaving for boot camp - I'd pretty much been kicked out of the Navy. Oh I got an honorable discharge; but because Gulf War Syndrome "didn't really exist" - I was handed my walking papers and told not to come back. The VA I'd found to be just as worthless. (At least at that time it was. I've heard a lot of things have changed, but I don't know. I've never really been back.)

I hated the military. I hated the VA and I hated "America"!

I remember thinking "God why'd this happen to me? I made a promise. I was suppose to serve for five years. I was suppose to go to Japan next. What was the matter with me? Was I making this up? This isn't how it was suppose to end. God I'm so depressed. I'm sick, I'm tired. F— Saddam for what he did to all of us. F— Saddam for what he did to his own people! F— our own sanctions that are killing anybody _left_ in Iraq! F— the coalition for screwing up this whole war by not finishing the job in the first place! F— us up for selling that crap to Saddam to begin with! F— the DOD for making us take all them stupid shots and pills and f— the FDA for not protecting us! I went into the Navy for a skill set I can't even use now because I can't f— 'in stand up! So now I'm going back to the same f— 'ed up family I left! F— my life! I just want to die!

After I got back to New York; I did manage to eek out a living working overnights in a group home and going to school. At least I had my GI bill. I went into counseling two years later, which postponed my suicidal ideations another couple of years. Then in 1998 when Desert Fox started; I got a letter from the Navy telling me to be prepared to be recalled. At that point I totally lost it and wound up in the psych ward for a month. I was diagnosed with a "Major Depressive Episode" and "Post Traumatic Stress Disorder".

Little did I realize at the time that although I felt like I was going crazy - _**I was actually going sane!**_

* * *

_(Next postponement - I got to put the cats and my kid to bed.) _


	3. Chapter 3

_(Alright, back again.)_

* * *

_**From Suicide to Survival:** _

Well, backing up in this counseling stint I spent after getting out of the Navy. I 'd also gone to sex addicts anonymous meetings. I share this because I think it's important for people who struggle with these sorts of things to know they are not alone. Looking back at it now - I'm not sure I belonged in those meetings - but maybe I did? After all, I couldn't control my insatiable need to touch myself.

On the flip side of it though, I realize I suffered more from PTSD than from an addiction. For as I dealt with the trauma caused from the sexual abuse - the compulsions subsided. I don't struggle with them now and I haven't for many years. Sexuality has become like everything else in my life. You just deal with it.

It's a long road and as far as homosexuality goes; I really feel for people trying to come out of that "life style". I ran into a lot of folks who were struggling with their "sexual orientation" in the addicts meetings. They existed in the shadow of lives racked with an incredible amount of pain. I guess if I'd learned anything from their struggles, I'd learned compassion. Addictions exist on a variety of continuums and I left those meetings thanking God that there are roads in life He'd stopped me from going down. As for that strange and (at least to me) psychologically disturbing dream I'd had with Jesus in it - it did confirm one thing in my head. Without a shadow of a doubt, I realized I wasn't gay!

I'd gone to a Christian counseling center with my "dark secrets" and I had a male counselor. It was an interesting experience and I really think God used this man to help me see things I couldn't have possibly understood without the insights of a more objective party. Taking the theological... stuff... out of who were the participants in this dream; I did eventually come to realize that I wasn't as warped as I'd feared. This dream contained two adults, no one was hurting anyone and everyone felt loved and contented in the end. So wow, how did someone coming from the background I came from make those connections? Amazing how God even uses our own sin, to help us understand grace.

Well, after somewhat resolving that in my head - for the first time in my life - I felt like God could actually love me! My, "I didn't put Lake Ontario here" revelation brought me to "God I really need your help to straiten out my messed up life" to Desert Storm "God please don't let me get killed because I'm pretty sure I'll end up in hell" to I can use the processing going on in your head (dreams) to help you understand something about love. No, your no more righteous than any other sinner, but your no more wicked either. Somewhere in my mind, that revelation leveled the playing field and opened the door for me to believe that I was actually redeemable.

What great timing too; for shortly after that came Desert Fox and God knew I'd need some sort of security in the knowledge of His love to literally keep me alive!

* * *

_**Bridge Over Troubled Water:**_

This was 1998 and the group home I worked at had a resident who took Phenobarbital for her seizures. While the "Heaven's Gate" UFO cult was in the news; I struggled mightily inside of myself not to follow their "lead" and commit suicide with this resident's Phenobarb and a bottle of wine. I wasn't any more than a couple of days away from carrying out this plan, when I went into my counselor's office and told her what I wanted to do.

I knew in my mind that if I had actually swiped the drugs - I would have gone through with it. The resident just had a fresh blister pack delivered from the pharmacy and _I_ wouldn't need much; so I knew there'd be enough for both of us. (Funny how it was, even in the midst of my "selfish" suicidal thoughts - I was worried about leaving enough meds so this resident wouldn't have a seizure.) I'd get off shift that morning; (after signing off on the med count - we had to count and sign off on controlled substances) pick up a bottle of wine on the way home and "go to bed". The plan seemed fair enough and no-one would suspect anything, since I didn't have school that day. (The group homes weren't staffed when the residents were all at program. The last two staff to leave in the AM, did the morning med sign off and the next two to come in would do the afternoon med sign off.) So by the time anyone came in to do the med count for the afternoon shift and notified the police of the theft; I'd already be dead.

Looking back at it now, even though that's not the closest I've ever been to death; it was the closest I've ever been to causing my own destruction - and that's pretty scary!

When I told my counselor all this, she called the ambulance and they took me to the hospital. She saved my life that day. About a month would pass though and the next time around - it would be God who'd more directly save my life!

Rage, regret and nightmares were swallowing me up. I couldn't sleep. I'd lost about 30 pounds. I kept dreaming about being lost in Saudi Arabia, having my own guys rape and shoot me, or just having a scud fall on me. Strange as this sounds, I actually liked the dreams where the scuds fell on me. Watching the air raids, crunched down alone by a vehicle tire didn't scare me. The worst a bomb could do was kill me. The other dreams though? People were far more scary than bombs!

The nightmares culminated one afternoon when I'd fallen asleep in the Student Union at college. In the nightmare, some Iraqi had discovered me hiding out in the back of an empty truck in the middle of nowhere waiting for day break. This guy had managed to rip most of my uniform off when I finally dared to turn my head and look at his face. It was my brother!

I woke up at that point and nearly had jumped / fallen out of the chair I was in. One of my fellow Inter-varsity students looked at me and said "Are you OK?" I ran out of the Student Union and threw up in the grass. I didn't sleep for two days after that. That was the nightmare that sent me to the hospital the first time.

The psych ward was a strange and sort of surreal experience. Since I didn't have any illegal drugs or alcohol in my system, I was put on the "neuro-psych" floor as opposed the the MICA unit. (Mentally Ill Chemically Addicted) There was a variety of patients on this floor, who all ran the gambit from the developmentally disabled; (there on "med holiday") to the elderly. We all mostly suffered from Depression, Bipolar Disorder or schizophrenia. In any institutional circumstance - all places have their "angels" and their "devils" and this hospital ward was no exception. Funny as how this always seemed to end up - the "devils" that always came to haunt me were my own family.

At this point, my brother had a live-in girlfriend who actually worked at this hospital. (MICA floor) Yeah, she was a substance abuse counselor who worked with sex offenders. (Life is filled with ironic contradictions aint it!) When I'd first started to spiral out of control in my depression, she'd sat down and talked to me about how I was feeling. I had told her that I'd been sexually abused, but hadn't disclosed by whom. All she knew was that I still had contact with this person.

Well, about three days or so into my hospital stay; my sister was up visiting when "Connie" (pseudo name for "con artist in self deception") came marching in. Apparently my brother had confessed to her that he was the guilty party and when she'd talked to my dad - he'd told her about my "Iraqi in the back of the truck" nightmare and his observation that this appeared to be the "last straw" that had landed me in the hospital. So she had to ask me (and my sister) a question.

"Do you think he'd hurt a child?"

Well at that time, my sister believed seeing the pain he'd caused me, would deter him from perpetrating that upon anyone else. (Years later we'd find the truth - but that's for a future chapter.) I'd simply said that unless he got help - I wouldn't make any guarantees. Connie then proceeded to state her intentions to marry my brother, because she really wanted a baby and believed she was too old to start over with another relationship. So she restated her question and I restated my answer. Looking back at it now; (although I couldn't see this at that time) I think this is the point when Connie set her mind on a path to insulate herself from the future I think she knew she inevitably faced. Marrying this... (_never did become a real_...man) and having children with him would be a huge mistake; but if she could find "invariable proof" that I had Borderline Personality Disorder - somehow that would let _**her** _off the hook.

"... and knowing the truth they choose to believe a lie..."

The next closest incident to actual suicide I'd gotten was when I crawled up under the rigging of a large bridge that spanned a local bay. I'd parked my car on the bridge, climbed down the embankment to where the bridge met the hill and began to climb out toward the water. I stopped about twenty-five or thirty feet out, where the shore met the water and sat up there in the rigging of the bridge. It was windy and I remember looking down at a fisherman who had his boat tied to one of the bridge pylons. He was standing on the pylon and from where I was, he looked to be about the size of one of those little plastic soldiers you get in bulk packs in the box chain toy stores. I looked at him and then down at the ground directly below me. I knew at that point that if I had jumped or fallen, I definitely would not have survived.

I must have sat up there for about 20 minutes. "God what do I do?" I knew He wouldn't be happy with me if I'd actually jumped off; but I didn't have the will to live any more. It wasn't that I hated myself or thought I was this terrible person at that point - I was just so tired of suffering! I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't function. I'd been out of work on medical leave of absence for at least a month. I'd fought my entire life to overcome these monsters in my head and I couldn't do it. I had no hope and no strength to keep fighting this war. I just wanted it to end. I remember saying - "God, if You want me to survive this than You're going to have to do something because - I don't have the will any more."

Then I had a revelation of sorts. I'd survived much worse than a couple of nightmares. _You get through the alcoholism, the abuse and the war - only to have the nightmares kill you? Does that really make any sense?_

Well, no it doesn't; but I don't have the strength to keep fighting.

_Well I'll give that too you!_

After that, I found the fortitude to get down and keep going. I remember being a little nervous and thinking to myself, well what if I slip and fall now?

_**My grace is sufficient for you!**_

Even if I actually fell off the bridge and in spite of my own folly. I knew God would forgive me.

So I got back to where the bridge met the ground and climbed back down the embankment. When I turned around to climb back up the hill, I looked down at the ground and saw a mess of Monarch butterfly carcases. So I picked one up and took it home with me. Later on, I'd take it to a craft store with the words to the song "When you set me free" (Sandi Patti) and have it mounted in a frame.

I still have that butterfly. It's hanging on my living room wall.

Years later, I would go to a church's winter retreat. One day, I shared the story about the bridge with the people in my small group.

One lady looked at me and asked: "Do you know why you didn't die that day?"

I just kind of looked at her. "Well..."

"You didn't die because God is the God of life - Not the God of death!"

I had to think about that for a minute or so; but she was right. I didn't jump of the bridge that day because God is the God of life; not the God of death.

From that point on, though I've had frustrations and occasionally fleeting thoughts of suicide; I never again came that close to actually carrying it out.

* * *

_(Alright - on that "happy" note. It's time for bed.)_


	4. Chapter 4

_(Alright now - back a day or so later. I've done some editing / rewrites from the first three chapters and expounded a little bit on some of the events. It's still pretty raw; but I think it's making more sense.)_

* * *

_**With my loved one here I stand - Oh Lord please hold my other hand:**_

This was an extremely odd time in my life. Not only was I fighting to overcome the pain of the past; but I was really _wishing_ for a better future. Even though I finally felt comfortable enough to afford myself some male companionship that went beyond mere acquaintance - I'd only ever dated but a few times in my life. Well, in came a friend of mine - someone I'd met through some folks I knew from church and he seemed so much like "the right one for me."

Well, we'd known each other for about three years before getting engaged. Our engagement lasted about a year before we were married in the fall of 1999. Oh it was a beautiful wedding; a 150 year old church and a reception at a historical landmark in one of the surrounding cities that flanked Rochester. Horse and buggy, Civil War era theme wedding on a beautiful autumn afternoon. And of course we went to England and Wales for our honeymoon. Who could ask for anything more. It was indeed lovely. We enjoyed everything about Great Britain (except maybe a few of our meals) and had a grand time absorbing the history of some of our ancestry.

God I thought I had it all.

The next two years of married life had some bumps in the road; but I don't think either of us were prepared for what lay beyond. At least I know I wasn't.

Our marriage was fraught with a few difficulties; but nothing **_I_** didn't think we couldn't overcome. I had a lot of hope in the early days. I was finally going to be successful. I was finally going to "have it all". I'd struggled through my depression and dealing with PTSD. I was stable enough to finally finish school and upon graduating from the local community college - I was ready to tackle the landscape architecture program at Cornell in Ithaca.

Our "love life" had it's ups and downs, but I was learning to enjoy the gifts God had given me and was well happy with the progress I was making. My fears had been overcome. My nightmares were subsiding and these urges I'd once felt I'd lost control over had become well integrated into the flow of my married life. I felt normal for once. Life was moving on and my heart mind and body were on the mend.

I learned a lot in those years in dealing with my thoughts and feelings about my own sexuality. I came to thank God for the good feelings I was learning not to be ashamed of. Later on, I was doing a Bible study in Genesis when I quite accidentally discovered why the whole reproductive process for everything on this planet was so successful and enjoyed by so many creatures. It's a reflection of the good pleasure and contentment God felt in creating this universe in the first place. "And God looked upon all that He'd created and saw that it was good." Out of His love for life; He instilled in the fabric of this world's procreative existence, a reflection of that goodness and love. It made me come to understand God, Jesus, myself and the world around me in a whole different light.

_"And I will restore unto you the years the locust has eaten..."_

Looking back now, I don't think hubby ever got to the same point I did in his own feelings about himself, his body and especially his capacity to contribute to the creation of new life; which turned out to be rather tragic in the end. (But that's for a later chapter.) Today though, I see the fruit of God's grace in the life of my child. I've been very careful to protect him from anyone who may sexually abuse him. He's been instructed to be in care of his private parts. I've told him: "They are a gift from God and only when the time is appropriate for you - should you ever share them with someone else. Until then, that part of you is only for you and only between you and God." A couple of days later, I went to get him up for school and he was scrunched up under the covers giggling. He said to me. "Yeah mom, we should thank God for this." When I pulled the covers off, he had his hands in his pajamas. I just looked at him and laughed. "Yeah my dear, be thankful to God. He gave you that out of His goodness. Guard it. Guard your innocence."

_**The promised child - I never knew I'd have:**_

We'd been married about two and a half years maybe; with a move in our future and no baby in sight, I decided maybe I ought to exercise some intervention to make sure life stays as "status quo" - at least until I finish school and get my career underway.

But one trip to the doctor changed all that.

"So you're here to go on birth control." The nurse said to me.

"Yeah, I want to make sure I get through school first."

"Well ah, your decision as to whether or not you want to have a baby - will ah, tell us what we want to do next. Your urine test came back positive."

"What? You telling me I'm pregnant?"

"Well, we don't know for sure. You have to have a blood test to confirm that. So, once the results come back from that; then we can decide what to do next."

I just kind of looked at her.

"Well if I am pregnant, then it looks like I'm having a baby - because I sure as hell aint having an abortion!"

"Well OK, what ever you decide."

So with that, I went home and told my dear husband what had happened. He looked at me and said: "Well, we could put it up for adoption."

I looked back at him and said: "Well I'm not so sure about that. Maybe if the circumstances were different, but we're married. We have jobs and I can't see the kid coming back to me in twenty years and asking: "Mom why'd you give me up?"."

"Because I wanted to finish school and you were too inconvenient."

To me that just didn't seem like a good enough reason. I couldn't really explain it at the time, but I knew somewhere down in my soul God gave me this baby because it was part of His plan. I had no idea what my life would look like from there on out, but I knew this baby was no accident. It may have not been planned by me, but it was planned by someone.

* * *

_**The day that changed a nation:**_

Much of my issues with America and Desert Storm had been put on the back burner at that point. Though I still suffered from some of the effects of my PTSD, I had a child to prepare for. I was about 16 weeks pregnant at that point; so one lovely fall morning, I stopped at the bank before I was to go for my second ultra-sound. I'd been listening to a Christian radio station and the morning show guys were telling jokes - like usual. So I shut the car off and went into the bank. When I got inside, the mood seemed unusually somber and people were whispering. When I asked the lady in front of me what was wrong. She said: "A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center in New York City." Not too much longer after she'd told me this, a bank employee came out from a back room and said. "A second plane just hit the other tower. It's terrorists. We're under attack!"

My mind sort of went blank at that point and I felt this impending sense of doom. I have a vague recollection of asking the guy in the bank. "They sure it isn't an accident?" He said: "No, this is the second plane. It's terrorists." I remember standing in line thinking to myself - Wow, the war has come here! I wasn't really scared at that time, but I was nervous; since I was in a rather large city that could have been a target itself. The bank wasn't that far from the city's airport and I remember looking for planes as I was driving to the ultra-sound. Finally I came to this conclusion: Well God, if a bomb lands on me; there's not going to be anything I'm going to be able to do about it anyways.

The rest of the day was kind of a blur. I went to my ultra-sound, my parent's house and then to an Alanon meeting. Dad and I were watching the news for an hour and a half or so before mom got up. I still remember the first thing out of dad's mouth when she appeared on the landing. "Rose, We're going to war!"

By the time I left the city that afternoon. I was happy to be headed back home. I lived about 15 or so miles into the southern countryside of this city and I remember feeling safer once I crossed over the New York State Thruway. I listened to the radio on the way home and they were talking about how eerie it was that there were no planes in the air. I think like most people that day - I had my eye on the sky. I remember asking God what was going on; yet at the same time, I couldn't help but feel that on some level we deserved it. Our foreign policy certainly didn't smack of justice and equity to the nations around us - so I wasn't surprised at all that this had happened. The news footage kept running through my head and I cried several times that day for the people in New York City.

I kept thinking about Isaiah, Jeremiah and Elijah - telling their nation to repent. When my husband got home that evening; he too had interpreted the terrorist attacks as a "wake up call". They hit America in all the things we worship: our commerce, our military and the land itself. I wasn't sure how right he was, but I didn't think he was too far off track. The next thing that came to my mind was an incredible sense of fear for the people in Afghanistan. I started praying for them in a sense, even more than I prayed for my own country.

As the days and weeks passed after 9/11 - and even when hurricane Katrina came and went. I started to realize something that I'd been sure America had lost since - maybe World War Two? Her people weren't as soft, weak and cowardly as the terrorists hoped we would be. No, we turned out to be generous, hard working and caring. Though Katrina and the war on terror certainly had their screw ups over the years; I was happy to see all the pictures on the news of the Iraqis with their blue fingers on election day. I was happy when our guys pulled Saddam out of his hole and when the news came down the morning they announced Bin Laden was dead. I don't know ultimately what's going to happen over there; but I do hope and pray for the best for Iraq and Afghanistan. One day, just like the guys who'd stormed the beach at Normandy revisited the site 50 years later; I want to stand in the middle of Baghdad and see a country at peace and a land at rest.

* * *

_(Next installment - after I eat breakfast!)_


	5. Chapter 5

_(Well, here's where it gets kind of hard because the next 8 or so years get all mumbled up in my head. A lot happened and though I remember the events pretty well enough; I still think there's aspects of them I have to process through. Unresolved grief I guess. Remembering this stuff is like walking through the Twilight Zone; but here goes nothing!)_

* * *

_**Birth of a son - death of a mother:**_

Well, my son was born in January of 2002; while my mother died at the end of March. So much happened and as I look back at it now, I'm still not sure what to make of my mother? Other than her sense of humor and ability to laugh at my corny jokes - I don't really miss her. I have a few fond memories of mom; all of which were in the years surrounding my exodus from the Navy to the year I got engaged.

I used to like to go out jogging, or for long walks in the winter time. I always enjoyed looking at the freshly fallen snow that blanketed the landscape in our home town. I'd worn my Navy p-coat upon one of these walks and when I came in the house I was covered with snow. I walked into the kitchen and mom was sitting there watching TV. She said hi to me and I just stood there a minute looking at her, than I glanced down at the lapels of my p-coat that were still covered in snow. I looked back at her and said: "You know mom - I think I gotta stop eatin' all these powdered donuts!" Both her and my dad just cracked up. Stupid stuff like that I remember.

My other fond memory was when I'd moved out shortly after coming back from the Navy. Mom wasn't particularly happy with me; but dad understood. Well, my parents used to go to the mall near their house every Wednesday night for Burger King's two burgers and two fries for $2.22. I knew they did that, so I decided one night; (when I didn't have to work) that I was going to show up and surprise them. I came up the escalator and they were sitting in the food court. Dad pointed and said: "Hey, look who's here." and mom's face lit up. They were both really happy to see me and we walked around the mall a couple of times before they went home and I went back to my place. (I was renting a room out of someone's house.) After that, we made that our Wednesday evening thing for a good long while. I think it worked out well, because it was just a time of visiting with no demands really on any of us. Gave me a chance to sit down and talk to my mom and dad too. Try to come to some terms with the strained family situation. About three or four months after my brother finally moved out; I went and lived with my parents for a while.

Just before my son was born, mom hadn't felt well since about Christmas time. She first figured she just had a cold; but when it wouldn't go away and she was starting to have trouble breathing - she finally went to the doctor. The doctor sent her for X-rays because he thought she had pneumonia. Well, she ended up in the ICU and by the end of the month - she was dead.

Mom had cancer and her lungs were full of tumors. She was 57 years old when she died - the same age her grandmother had been when she died. Ironic as that ended up to be - in a creepy sort of way. My mother had lived with her grandmother for the first six years of her life. When she went back home to her parent's house - that's when her sexual abuse started. My dad said that mom never got over her grandmother's death.

Just after World War Two, when mom was about three or so years old; all of the grandchildren chipped in to buy their grandmother an antique lamp. It was a double globed "Gone with the Wind" hurricane style lamp; pink with red roses and had been made sometime between 1900 and 1910. My mom had fond memories of this lamp - that there was "always a light on at grandma's house".

Well, when her grandmother died, her mother inherited the lamp. When my grandmother died, my mother inherited the lamp. When my mother died, my father gave the lamp to me. One day when I was cleaning it - in it's oil canister I found a couple of bits of newspaper wadded up and stuck in there. One was a newspaper date from 1947 and the other had 1984 on it. It took me a while to figure it out, but one date was the year my mother got the lamp and the other was the year her grandmother had gotten it.

The legacy of the lamp - oh how we needed a light in our dark world!

* * *

_**The Bottomless Pit:**_

Well theologically speaking, I'm not one who's into ghosts and demons and ghouls; although I certainly believe there are evil spirits in this world - I just never paid much mind to them. In the week or so that my mother was home between hospital stays; I remember one day in particular. I don't recall why I came over that day? Maybe just to visit for a bit. I had my son with me and as soon as I opened the door I felt like I was walking into a grave. It was a very heavy and oppressive feeling. I remember looking at mom. She was parked on the couch in front of the TV with her blankets and the oxygen machine going. She looked kind of peaked and like she was angry. I wasn't sure what to make out of this, because I'd never felt that before in their house - nor had I ever felt it since. The only thing that came to my mind was the description of the opening of the bottomless pit in the book of Revelation. The lid to hell had been peeled back and all the evil spirts were pouring out.

Dad was in the kitchen and I remember saying something to him about the creepy feeling I had. He just kind of shook his head in some sort of acknowledgment that he felt it too. I asked him if she was about to die. He just shrugged. I don't know? Well, I went in to visit with mom a bit and I asked her if she wanted to hold the baby. She said no - she was too sick. It seemed to cheer her up a bit when I put him on the ottoman, so she could at least see him. She played with his feet a little, but seemed to be falling asleep; so we didn't stay too long. I waited until my dad got back from the store. I figured he needed a break.

Well, shortly after dad returned, my brother came in with his daughter. I guess he'd been there earlier and since he'd heard mom was happy to see my son a few days prior, he decided to bring his baby. His oldest girl is about six months older than my son. Mom wasn't doing real well with the babies and my brother's daughter started screaming. He got aggravated with her and finally dad growled at him a bit and told him to leave. "Go home and spend some time with your own family; you don't need to be here all the time."

So my brother just sort of stuffed his daughter back into her car seat. (It was actually kind of comical to watch because her arms and legs were just flailing all over the place. She was about 8 or 9 months old at the time and she was really **_not _**happy.)

I left shortly after myself; in order to give mom some time to rest and dad - I guess he wanted some time to talk to mom. (He said he wanted to be alone for a while.) So I stopped at my brother's house before going home, since dad had told me my sister had gone over there. My sister had left at that point and the only one who appeared to be home was my brother's wife and his unhappy child. (He'd dropped the kid off and left. I think her mom was trying to feed her.)

Well, I went in for a minute or so and cried on "Connie's" shoulder for a bit, about the suffocating oppression I'd felt. She said she'd been over my parent's house recently too and felt the same thing. I wanted to sit down and visit for a while, but she told me that my brother was angry at his sisters and that I should probably leave before he got back. OK? - So I went home.

Later, I'd heard from one of my sisters that dad had actually thrown my brother out of the house earlier that morning. Apparently he's spent the whole night downstairs with mom and when dad came down - he'd lost it and yelled at my brother: "She's not your wife - Get out of here!" I don't know what happened and according to my sister, she didn't know why dad had gotten so angry. I'm guessing my sister had come into the house just after dad had gotten down stairs. I think she'd stopped by because she had a casserole or something she'd put together for them.

Everyone was stressed and tense about these blow ups of dad's; but no-one ever really questioned them? Looking back at it now. I wonder what really going on; but than again - maybe I don't want to know?

A couple of days later; I had another incident where I was elected to go sit with mom, while everyone else was having "a meeting" at my brother's house. Supposedly the meeting was about what to do about mom? (What are ya gonna do about mom - she's dying.) I'd gotten the impression that I was to try and extract information out of her as to how she was feeling. No one else seemed to have the courage to ask. Well, I remember getting out of the car and on the way into the house, asking God for help. What ever happens, even if she dies right in front of me - give me the strength to get through this.

I really wanted to talk to mom about death and God and heaven and hell and redemption. I was really scared though. I'm not sure what I was scared of - other than mom flipping out on me. I knew she really couldn't hurt me. She didn't have the physical strength to hit me or chase me around the house; so I really wasn't sure why I was so scared. I said to God. OK, if You open the door - I'll walk through it. If You don't - I won't.

When I came in the house she glared at me. "What are you doing here?"

I told her that I'd come over because everyone else was at my brother's having a meeting. Mom got mad and said she didn't like how we were all "sneaking around" talking like she wasn't even there. She said she'd heard what we said in the kitchen; but when I asked her about it - she wouldn't elaborate any further. Then she demanded of me to know what "all this" was all about. I tried to be calm and gentle when I started: "Well mom, we know that your very sick."

"Yeah, I'm sick. So what about it." She snapped at me.

"Well mom, we know..." And before I could finish the sentence - the neighbors knocked on the door and mom seemed to jump at the opportunity for the interruption.

I was going to tell her that - we knew she was going to die. I'm not exactly sure how she would have reacted; but I know it wouldn't have been positive. After her initial response, I hadn't figured what I would have said, but I was prepared to tell her that I thought it would be good if she _could_ talk about getting ready to pass.

I don't know, looking back at it - this is one of the things I'm still conflicted about. Part of me just wanted to blast her. "Yeah honey - Yer gonna die. It aint gonna be much longer till you're six feet under; so you better deal with it **_now!_**" I'm still not sure why exactly I felt that way; other than I was really tired of mom dodging the issues all the time. I just wanted to have an honest conversation with her; but looking at it realistically, I don't think that would have happened either.

* * *

_**Life in the twilight zone of an incestuous family:**_

Mom had gotten weird on me a few times; one of which I hadn't really remembered until a couple of years after dad died. There were two incidents I did remember though. The first that I hadn't forgotten, occurred when I was in the ninth grade. I told the counselor at school about the sexual abuse. Since I had stated that is was not still going on, we discussed telling my parents. She said to me that at this point she wasn't going to get CPS involved, unless she didn't hear back from my parents. She said that either I could tell them, or she would send them a letter. I told her I wanted to tell them; so she gave me a deadline. I had till Monday.

I wrote a story about two Russian kids who'd come to America on a medical goodwill mission. The six year old had cancer and the 13 year old was accompanying his brother. Well the thirteen year old was the one who was being abused. So I wrote this story down; first in a "secret script" I'd invented out of the Russian alphabet. (I did that because I was afraid of anyone reading it.) Next, I translated it and wrote at the end "This happened to me." I took it down stairs after school on Friday, handed it to dad and went back upstairs.

I started crying as I ran up the stairs and waited in my room for about 10 minutes. Mom came. She had the notebook in her hand. She looked like she was disgusted with me. She came over, sat down and reluctantly put her arm around me.

"Who was it?"

I didn't say anything. I just sat there and cried.

"Was it someone in this family."

I nodded my head yes.

"It wasn't your father - was it."

I shook my head no.

"It was your brother - wasn't it?"

I nodded yes.

"Why didn't you come to me first. You know your father isn't very forgiving of your brother."

"I'm sorry." I just cried.

"No, just sounds to me like your trying to break the family up."

"No, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Mom got up and just left me there. I grabbed one of my big stuffed Holly Hobby dolls.

About five minutes or so later, dad came upstairs. My one sister was coming home on the late bus soon and my other sister had just moved away to college that school year. Dad had me follow him downstairs to the sewing room, so my sister just coming home wouldn't get upset. She had a concert she had to sing at that night.

Dad and I sat in the sewing room for about 15 minutes or so. I clung to Holly Hobby while he asked me a whole bunch of questions.

"I don't believe this." He mumbled. "Are you telling the truth?"

"Yes."

"Or did the counselor tell you to say this?"

"No."

"When did this happen?"

"I don't remember."

"How old were you?"

"I don't remember."

"Did this happen more than once"

"Yeah."

"What did he do? Did he sweet talk you into it? Did he force you?"

"Both."

Dad sat quietly for a real long time. I looked up at him. He looked like he was going to cry.

"Why didn't you come and tell us first?"

"We did. (Sister) told you. One night when you came home and she had scratches all over her. She was crying and you were asking her what was wrong. She said "Rock" (psudo name for "Rock head") tried to ... tried to..."

"rape her." Dad mumbled.

I'd just looked at him. Now he looked scared.

"I'd forgotten about that."

His voice cracked.

"You know now those people are going to come and take you away."

"No they won't. She said they won't - so long as it's not still happening."

"Is it?"

"No!"

Dad got this look in his face.

"I'm gonna kill him!"

He got up.

"No, no, no - don't kill him!" I jumped up after him.

Dad looked at me a minute. "Stay here." He said.

Then he left the room, closed the door and went into his bedroom. A couple of minutes later, I heard him go down stairs. I sat back down clutching Holly Hobby and just cried. A few minutes later dad came back into the room and sat down; then mom came in, followed by my brother.

"Now I want the truth out of both of you!" My mother said. "Did this happen."

We both nodded yes. My brother started crying. My mother patted him on the shoulder, than he just sat down on the chair next to the sewing machine. Mom just stood there. She didn't say anything for a long time.

"Shit! Now their gonna come and stick you in a foster home." She started yelling at me. "Is that what you want? Huh? Is that what you want. You wanna break the family up?"

"No!" I started sobbing.

"Rose." My dad said.

Than my brother started sobbing.

"What's the matter?" My mother mumbled to him.

"I don't want you guys to think I'm a monster."

"Oh I don't think you're a monster." She squatted down and started patting and rubbing his leg.

"But she probably does." He looked at me.

"You don't think he's a monster. Do you!"

"No." I squeaked.

I really wanted to scream - YES I DO! You little bastard! I kept thinking. I didn't rape you! I looked at my brother. He was sitting there with one hand over his face and holding mom's one hand that was petting his leg. I looked at mom. She was glaring at me. Then I looked at dad. He looked horrified. Then my brother started to talk to me.

"Do you forgive me?"

"Yeah."

"Can I hug you."

I just sat there, looked at him, then at mom and squeezed Holly Hobby all the more. I didn't want to hug him. I wanted to pull a gun out and blow his head off.

"Come on hug you're brother." Mom reached over to take the doll away from me. I wouldn't let go of her though. Mom just looked at me. "No, I'm not putting Holly Hobby down."

"You don't want to hug him do you?" Dad mumbled.

No. I shook my head.

"Oh come on." My brother whined as he got down on his knees on the floor.

"Hug your brother!" My mother demanded.

I used Holly Hobby to cover my chest, reached out with my left arm and sort of patted him on the shoulder. He put his arms around me and hugged me.

"I love you." He said.

I just sat there. Mom looked at me like she was expecting me to say: 'I love you' back. I didn't say anything. My brother finally let go of me. I felt like I was going to die.

"Did those people tell you I'm a bad person?" He asked me while still holding onto my arms.

"No."

"Did they tell you not to talk to me."

"No."

"You know, I'm over age. They could send me to jail."

"No-one's going to send you to jail." Mom told him as she patted his shoulder and rubbed his back. "I'm not going to let them." My brother stood up. "Come on. Let's go." My mother told him. They both left the room. My brother wouldn't look at my dad. My dad looked at my mom. She just glared at him. My mother and brother went down stairs.

My dad stood up, turned and looked at me.

"Come on. Yer sister's got a concert tonight."

I got up and started walking toward the door.

"You want a hug?" Dad asked.

"Yeah." I said.

Dad put his arms around me, pulled my head to his chest and put his head down on mine. "Maybe your better off in foster care." He mumbled through a couple of tears. Than he kissed the top of my head, let go of me and walked out the door.

"Come on, we gotta go take your sister to her concert."

* * *

_(I sat down and typed this in the course of an hour or so. It scars me how detailed my memory is. That's what makes these hard to do. I loose time and I feel like I'm in the twilight zone! Now it's 6 PM and I gotta go feed my kid.) _


	6. Chapter 6

_(Well, a couple of weeks have passed and here I am again. I think it's taken me this long to be able to process the last segment I wrote, to be able to get on to this one. Putting all the subsequent pieces together has given me a new perspective on what dad said about me being better off in foster care. I realize now, that statement wasn't about dad not wanting me. No, it was about his understanding that the world between his wife's ears was a very twisted one and that my only hope of not getting sucked in, was to get the hell out.)_

* * *

**_Facing the Giants:_**

So, thus went **_my_** first "remembered" disclosure to mom and dad about the sexual abuse. Other fragmentary pieces would come through later - of disclosures prior to this ninth grade account. Some of what I remembered though, didn't surface until years after dad died.

I'd always had some fragmentary memories of the sexual abuse it's-self; memories that I'd never forgotten. I'd often held recall of the beginnings of abuse incidence, but not the endings. In the early days of my incest survivor meetings - I found this frustrating; but I'd soon come to the conclusion that if I was meant to remember something, eventually it would come. I guess in a sense I'd figured that what I could and couldn't remember was also part of God's plan. Later, I'd come to realize that some of what I couldn't remember was because of what would later surface of mom and dad's knowledge of this abuse.

So I returned to school the next week and told the counselor that I did manage to disclose to mom and dad what happened. When I'd explained to her some of how it unfolded; she seemed rather shocked and a bit horrified that my mother had forced me to confront my brother. She said she was proud of me though, that I didn't back down. A lot of kids when forced into a corner like that; will then say that it didn't happen. I told her no - I wasn't about to say that. Yeah, there were times I struggled with whether or not telling my parents was the right thing? In the end though, I'd come to realize that divulging this to someone who actually believed me, lifted such a weight off my shoulders that I knew there was no going back. Even to this day, I've never regretted telling.

_**"For you shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free!"**_

Well, a couple of weeks passed and the counselor told me that she was going to send my parents a letter; stating that she was aware of the disclosure, that the accused still lived in the household and that she was requesting the family seek counseling before she contacted CPS. She gave it a week and my parents never responded to the letter. (I don't think my dad ever knew the letter had come in the fist place.) So, she told me the next step she was going to do was to call my parents.

This happened on a weekend and but for the providence of God, I'd gone for a walk when the call came. I'd only been gone for about 20 minutes because, for what ever reason - my mother didn't want me to leave the house? When I returned, she said that if anyone called to let her answer the phone because we'd just gotten a "prank call". I waited in great dread the rest of that weekend for the call I'd thought never came.

When I'd gotten back to school and talked to the counselor, she told me she had called. My mother had answered the phone and it didn't go well. At that point, the counselor said she'd decided that she needed to call Child Protective; but also she wanted to do it while I was there, so that I could know what she was telling them and that I could speak to them myself. So she made the call while I was sitting in the office and I did talk to the CPS worker.

I remember the investigator asking me if I had been sexually abused as the counselor had stated and I told her yes. Then she asked me if this was still happening and I said no. Her third question was if I knew whether or not it had / and was still happening to anyone else in the house. I told her that I remembered incidences involving my sisters, but that I believed it was not still happening to either of them. (I'd find out years later that I was wrong about that too; but again - that's for a future chapter.)

Finally, she asked about my age and the ages of my sisters. Since we were all 14 and over at that point; she seemed satisfied that we were "safe enough" and she told me that she was not going to launch an investigation. She did say though, that if there was anything else I wanted to tell her in the future; she'd give the counselor her name and extension so I could talk to her again as opposed to another investigator. (Since she already knew of the case.) After that we hung up.

The last 15 or so minutes of the session; the counselor and I talked about foster care. I asked her what would happen if I did go into foster care. She explained the process to me a little bit and than asked why I'd asked that. I told her I didn't really feel safe in my house and that I thought maybe I'd do better in school and stuff if I wasn't living there. She told me that she believed that if I wasn't being removed from an active abuse situation, I'd probably end up in a juvenile facility - a group home or something like that. Well, that scared me because though I didn't want to be at home; I also didn't want to be labeled a delinquent. She told me that a lot of kids in these homes were there because they had problems like I did and they didn't feel safe with their families. Still I was too scared to make that kind of move. I was afraid of the kids that might be there and I was afraid that going to a facility like that would some how limit my future.

What I really wanted was a nurturing place where I could grow. Someone to take me in and mentor me into early adulthood. I didn't want to be bounced around and I didn't want to be some place like school, where I always felt like I was fighting to not be totally on the bottom of the pecking order. I was depressed and I felt like I had a huge hole in my heart. I needed a place where I could heal. The counselor asked me if I had some place in mind; like a relative or a friend's house where I thought I could get what I needed. I said no, I felt the rest of my family was too screwed up and I didn't really have any friends. The only person I thought that might be of help was my dad's mom; but that I didn't think she wanted a fourteen year old who was messed up. Besides, if I did go there; I didn't think my mother would ever talk to me again. I remember she asked me if I really thought my mom would do that even if I was only staying with grandma? I said yes. She sat for a moment and then told me she was really sorry to hear that and she could understand why I didn't know what to do next.

After that, I asked her if my brother would go to jail if something else did happen. She said that he would be arrested and if he didn't confess to the abuse, there was a chance it would go to trial. Well, at that point I just started crying because I felt absolutely trapped. I told her I felt like jumping off a bridge. She said that if I really was afraid that I'd hurt myself, then she could have an ambulance come and take me to the hospital. I told her no, I didn't want to go to the hospital. At that point she made me promise I'd stay safe. I just said - yeah, yeah, yeah.

Well, she wasn't going to take that. She made me look her in the eye told me that if I couldn't make a solemn promise to be safe until the next time I saw her, then she couldn't let me go back to class. I remember looking at her and I knew she was serious. I don't think I could articulate it at that time; but the expression on her face made an impact on me. Here was someone who really cared whether I lived or died.

"OK." I said to her. "I'll stay safe until I see you again. I can't promise after that, but I'll stay safe until I see you again." She said. "OK. We can renegotiate that contract next time I see you. But if you're sure your going to be safe until then; I'll let you got to class." I said "OK" Then she asked me if I wanted a hug. I said yeah and she gave me a hug. I think that was the first time she hugged me.

Funny how that was 25 years ago and I can still hear her voice.

I miss her. But for the Grace of God - one of these days; I'm going to find her again.

_**All the while, You hear each spoken need,**_

_**Yet love us way to much to give us lesser things.**_

_**Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops?**_

_**What if Your healing comes through tears?**_

_**What if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know your near?**_

_**What if my greatest disappointments, or the aching of this life;**_

_**Is the revealing of a greater thirst this world can't satisfy?**_

_**What if trials of this life,**_

_**The rain, the storms, the hardest night,**_

_**Are Your mercies in disguise?**_

The second confrontation with my mother I'd always remembered though, occurred shortly after I'd come home from the Navy. I think the conversation started with her being angry at me about not wanting to live at their house. I told her there were reasons I didn't want to be there. There was stuff I needed to resolve in myself and stuff this family needed to face.

Well, she jumped all over me about my brother; telling me she didn't know what my problem was? She stated that she didn't really think I had an issue with the sexual "stuff" - it wasn't abuse. I wanted him to do it and now I was just saying all this because I jealous of him and I was only ever going to be half of what he was. I just looked at her and said: "What?"

"You're just jealous of him because your only ever going to be half of what he is?"

"Don't say that. You don't seriously believe that - do you?"

"Yes I do!"

"I'm only ever going to be half of what he is? And what is that mom? Half of what?"

"You heard me."

"So does that mean you're only ever going to be half of what "uncle slime - pseudonym for what he really is - a slime ball" was?"

She glared at me.

"You don't really feel that way. You're just drunk."

"No I'm not! That's the way I really feel!"

"Well mom if that's the way you really feel. That's pretty fucked up!"

I turned around a walked away.

I remember going up stairs to bed. I wasn't really angry, hurt or feeling much of anything else at the time. I just remember being really confused and wondering what the... hell, had possessed mom to say that? Looking back at it now, maybe "hell" and "possessed" were really the words. A couple of days later, I told dad about what she had said and he just shook his head: "Yeah." He nodded. "Your mother's got some problems." When I asked him what he meant, what was wrong with her? He said: "I don't want to talk about it." I remember looking at him and shrugging and he then he got angry at me. **_"I don't want to talk about it!"_**

So I guess in the end, my mother never really thought of herself as "any more than half of what her brother was." No, I guess she was too encumbered by her demons to hear anybody's voice but theirs. So what ever thoughts she may have had in her last days - she took them to the grave with her.

Mom's funeral was a strange event indeed. The only eulogy dad had to friends and family was "Thank you for being part of our lives." He couldn't say anything other than those eight simple words and sat down crying. My brother was the next one up; in which he posted a list of accolades he felt mom deserved. He basically talked about one event. Her efforts to have the local elementary school reopened and subsequent summer several family members spent cleaning and painting the building. My oldest sister talked about how mom had told her not to "follow the crowd" - "don't be a Pringle"; (the analogy being that all Pringle potato chips come out of the can looking exactly the same). My next sister made reference to how she loved her mother; although honestly, I don't remember what she said.

I was the last one to speak. I opened my remarks with the words to the Beatle's song "The Long and Winding Road". I recollected a 14 year old who was metaphorically left standing at her grandmother's grave because her mom was too consumed by the grief of losing her own mother to help her child through it. I mentioned a reference of my older sister's. She'd relayed mom telling her that she regretted not taking better care of her kids when her mom died. My sister had stated that she felt mom had more than made that up by the care she extended to her grandchildren; and to that, I had to agree with my sister. I talked about things mom had done for my son and how all us kids stewed a lot in the last days as to what we'd guess to be mom's "final wishes". I posed my hypophysis that she'd not want us to carry the same regret she had. She'd want us to take up our kids from her grave site and make sure they not lose us in our being consumed by our own grief. I talked a little bit about God helping us through our trials and to overcome our regrets; because in the end - God wants good and most parents want a better life for their children than what they'd struggled through. To greater emotional strength and stronger families - All God's people said Amen!

After that, I sang a song (or at least did my best at singing a song). "If these walls could speak" by Amy Grant. I don't think most of my family really understood that at least to me; that song spoke more of God's faithfulness than it did of any "love" our family displayed to each other. I had a Father in heaven who cared for me and certainly more than any of the lies and deceit that had been passed around for years as "love. God and His kingdom had become my family and what ever gratitude the proverbial walls of my life could tell - I owed it all to Him.

They would tell You that I owe You - more than I could ever pay.

Here's someone who really loves You - don't ever go away.

That's what these walls would say!

Well, come to find out at dad's funeral four years later - that my brother was absolutely livid with me over what I'd said at mom's funeral. From the point of when mom died though; I honestly didn't care what any of my siblings thought. I had spent a few days pondering this "eulogy" and the day before the funeral I'd read what I'd written to dad. He was quite for a moment and than said: "I like it. You're the only one who's got the guts to stand up and speak your mind." I asked him if anyone else had told him what they were going to say. He said yes; and that my sisters basically missed their mother and he felt my brother's eulogy was just full of crap.

Needless to say, my brother acted rather strangely at the cemetery. He wasn't stoic or extraordinarily weepy or anything like that. I remember being one of the last people to leave because my husband and I were on foot. We stood off a bit while they put the casket into the ground. My brother had been hanging all over it between the time most of the family had left and the cemetery crew came to close up the grave. The cement lid to the crypt was laying on the ground a couple of feet from the open grave where the crew was working to disassemble the apparatus that lowers the coffins. I don't know if they noticed my brother, but he was just about laying on top of volt cover stroking the name plate that had been screwed to it. When my husband saw this; he got this disgusted look on his face and said something to the effect of my brother being one sick puppy. "That is just creepy." He'd said.

As we walked the mile or so to my brother's house; (where the wake was) my husband had posed the question to me of something going on between my mother and brother? I just kind of looked at him funny. "No, I don't think so." I remember saying. _(Come to find out later of course that I was wrong there too.)_ The further I get in time away from the funeral and the more I look back at it, the more "Rock's" actions really were bizarre and twisted. At the time I remember thinking - she'd dead, get a grip. Knowing what I know now, I guess at least my brother's actions have a context to them; even if he was acting like he would have crawled into the casket with mom's corpse if he could.

I guess at this point, I've spent more than a few hours trying to decide how I really felt and what I really thought of all this? It's been hard to digest, even when I've spent several years trying to process it - I'm still not sure what to think. Maybe in a certain sense it doesn't really matter any more. My parents a both dead. One of those things I suppose I'll just never really wrap my brain around. We all have our crosses to bear and the memories we carry with us. I don't think I'm mad at my mother any more for any of this. She was a lost and I suppose, demon possessed soul. Am I glad that she's gone? I guess for the sake of a certain amount of closure in my own life - I'm more relieved than I am happy. God takes no pleasure in the death of the wicked and I certainly have a certain dread for the future I fear my mother will face. I was talking to a friend of mine shortly after her funeral about my suspects for her eternity. He said: Yeah, what happened in those few moments before she died - you don't really know; but I know your enough of a Calvinist to know God doesn't save everyone and you just got to let God be God.

Yeah, I just got to let God be God!

* * *

_(So here I am, end of what ever instalment this is - it's just about bed time and I've got to get a certain child marching off in that direction. Maybe more tomorrow.)_


End file.
